


So If It Scares You

by Plenoptic



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM Lite, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-12-01 23:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: "Maybe you can tell me why you like it?""Hm? - Being spanked, you mean?"





	So If It Scares You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lifotni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifotni/gifts).

“Are you sure?” he asks, for the thousandth time, and Elita releases an exasperated sigh.

“_Yes_, Prime, I’m sure.”

“You don’t sound it.”

Elita struggles for a moment to get herself turned around, grinning up at her partner. “Look, it wouldn’t be fun if it weren’t a _little _scary.”

The gaze Optimus levels back at her is steady and unmoved. “I have no wish to scare you.”

“What if I wanna be scared?”

“Elita.”

“_Optimus_.”

The Prime sighs and leans his weight back on his hands, considering the femme strewn lazily across his lap. She does make a pretty picture like that, he must admit. But he _likes _her aft. He doesn’t particularly want to strike it. The thought of striking her at all is… unpleasant.

Elita turns again—it’s a little difficult to get an angle on him from this position—and frowns at the brooding expression on his faceplates. “Optimus. It’s just meant to be fun. If you don’t want to, let’s not.”

“It’s not that I—” He pauses, collecting himself. “You’re adventurous. I like that about you. And I want to make you happy. Please you.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “I do want to be braver—take risks with you. It’s just… not easy.”

Elita shakes her head and sits up, ignoring his soft protest, and straddles his lap instead. His quarters are dimly lit, and the only other source of noise is the soft music floating to them from the speaker system she installed for him a few cycles ago, when she could no longer stand the perpetual silence of his quarters. He professed to not have much taste in music, but lately, the playlists he puts together are more and more to her liking. He really is putting in the effort, she thinks, smiling as she runs her fingertips along his helm. Trying to get to know her. Trying to make her more comfortable in his space.

“Then let’s start with something easier, hm?” she murmurs, shifting onto her knees to get her helm above his. Optimus looks up at her, cautiously settling his hands on her hips. She takes a moment longer to admire his faceplates—just stupidly handsome, in her opinion—before bending down to kiss him, holding his face between her hands to limit his ability to reciprocate, forcing him to let her lavish affection on him. When he finally relents and relaxes under her grip, she takes his chin in one hand and slides the other down his chestplates, pushing herself flush to his frame, smiling at the heat she can feel radiating from his chassis.

“Maybe you can—tell me,” he murmurs, in between kisses, “why you—like it?”

“Hm?—Being spanked, you mean?”

“Yes. Is it—” He pulls back from a kiss, and she lets him, lets him search her optics. He looks at her with such intensity, such concentration—it makes her spark flutter every time. “I just can’t imagine that you _want _me to… hurt you.”

She shakes her helm, placing her hands on his shoulders. “No. It’s not about hurting, or being hurt. Not for me.” She frowns a little, running her thumb along a jagged scar in the protoform just beneath his pauldron. “It’s about… sensation, I guess? About feeling as much as you can feel. And even more than that, I’d say it’s about control—about trusting someone else with your body, being that vulnerable with them.”

Optimus rests his helm against the back of the couch, humming softly, his thumbs brushing along her hip plating. “And you trust me that much?”

Elita smiles, leans down to kiss him again, then touches their helms together. “I’ve never let a mech do it before.”

His optics widen. “Never?”

“Nope. Femmes only.”

“Then why…?”

She shrugs, suddenly self-conscious, studying his shoulder a little more intently so she doesn’t have to meet the intensity of his optics. “It’s different with you.”

Optimus is quiet for a moment, his hands tracing idle paths along her hips, her thighs—and then he leans up, captures her mouth in a soft kiss that lingers longer, she thinks, than it ought to have. He is saying something with that kiss, something she may not be ready to hear.

“Stay the night,” he says, so quietly she almost misses it. “That’s my only condition.”

Elita giggles. She can’t help but feel a little shy when he looks at her like that. He makes her feel like she’s half her age instead of a few joors his senior. She used to hate it, the way he looked at her—across the command center, when they’d intersect in the hall, after a hard fight when their survival hadn’t been a guarantee. He _saw _her, and she’d hated it. When, exactly, had that begun to change?

“Alright. I’ll stay.”

“And you have to let me be gentle with you afterward.”

“Hey, you said that was the _only _condition.”

“Well, I lied.”

Elita huffs a sigh, faux frustrated, but sticks a hand out nonetheless. “Fine. I’ll stay, _and _you can be as sickeningly sweet as you want to be after. Deal?”

Optimus grins and gives her a brisk shake—then tugs her back into his chest, looping his other arm around her waist to nestle her close. “Deal,” he murmurs, so close their lipplates brush, but he doesn’t kiss her again. Instead, she finds herself briefly airborne, but can’t so much as yelp before she’s flat on her back and he’s looming over her, already ducking his head to mouth the side of her neck.

“Hey—the deal was _after _!” she snaps, knocking a fist against his chest, but he catches her wrist and pins it above her head with such ease and flippancy that her breath catches in her intakes. He takes advantage of her surprise to gather her other wrist as well, pinning both her hands beneath his huge palm.

“Should have read the fine print,” he hums, sounding so pleased with himself that for one wild moment she considers flipping the script and swatting his aft instead.

“I hate you,” she says, grousing, but when he slips his leg between hers, she lets her interface plating slide away so she can press her valve to his thigh. She’s been aching for him since the moment she arrived, since he’d thrown aside the datapad he’d been reading and all but stalked across his quarters to draw her against his chest. She’s ecstatic to see his confidence growing, to finally see him take some initiative in the physical part of their relationship. She adores his sweetness, his shyness—but she also wants him to pick her up and have his way with her sometimes.

Optimus hums as he continues kissing the side of her neck, and the hand not currently pinning her to the couch finally slips between her thighs and strokes the slippery margins of her valve. He fairly purrs into her wiring. “You lubricate so much.”

“Hey!” She jerks a knee into his side, and he grunts. “That’s rude.”

“I don’t mean to offend,” he says, laughing, rubbing a thumb in slow, teasing circles around her valve. “I find it attractive, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh.” Elita stills, trying and failing to resist moving her hips with his touch. “Sorry. Some bots have made fun.”

“Cruel of them.” Optimus releases her wrists to sit back on his knees, drawing her hips into his lap. With a soft click, his interface panel opens and his spike extends to rest thick and heavy against her thigh. His fingers continue to massage her valve opening, making no attempt to dip inside or stimulate the bright bionodes that mark an enticing path into her body. “Are you embarrassed?”

“S’why I stuck to spike for so long.”

“Mm.” Optimus touches the side of her face. There’s an almost impossible tenderness to his touch, and when he bends down to kiss her, she clenches her fists tight to keep from trembling against him. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Elita makes a soft noise, wordless, that she hopes he’ll read as her trying to shift the subject. Just in case he doesn’t get the hint, she reaches down between them and wraps a hand around his spike. A thumb brushed along the head is all it takes to get Optimus’s hips flexing, a throttled groan rising out of his throat.

“Will you ‘face me?” she asks, as sweetly as she can, smiling at the faintly strangled noise he makes in response. “Please? Just for a little while?”

“Thought you wanted me to…”

“I do. Just want your spike first. Please, Optimus?”

Optimus groans and bends down, kisses her fiercely, then shuffles back to free her legs. “Roll over for me, sweetspark.”

She does, eagerly, lifting her aft and giving it a wriggle just for good measure. Optimus laughs, low and breathless, and runs his hands down her back, over her hips. His thumbs spread her valve open, and she giggles when the head of his spike brushes along the sensitive circuitry.

“Playful tonight, aren’t you,” he rumbles, and pats her aft, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through her all the same. “I’m a little surprised, I must admit. This is… rather a new side of you.”

“Guess I just like you.”

“And I’m honored.” He leans over her, getting comfortable, presses a kiss to her shoulder. With a gentle flex of his hips he finally, _finally_, presses his spike into her. Elita gasps, tries to push back against him, and he hushes her, takes her hips in his hands with a firm grip. “Ah, ah, Lita—slow. We’re going slow tonight.”

“But I want—”

“I know what you want. But you also wanted me to take control.” His voice sounds measured, steadied, but she can feel his spike pulsing inside her, jerking a little against the walls of her valve. “Am I wrong?”

“No, but—” She breaks off with a soft cry when he rolls his hips again, and then it’s all she can do to clutch at the couch as he spreads her open on his spike. A new song plays, something soft, jazzy, wordless. Optimus places a hand on hers, threads their fingers together. He loves her, she thinks, gazing at their entwined hands—he hasn’t said so, and probably won’t for a while yet, but no one, mech or femme, has touched her like this while they fragged her. Even if they tried, she hadn’t let them. Optimus is just different. She wants him different, feels him different. He scares her.

The hand that isn’t tenderly holding hers suddenly comes down on her aft, and Elita yelps. The sharp jolt of pain makes her valve clench, and her neural net lights up, bright bolts of white-hot sensation racing under her plating.

“Lita—are you—”

“Again,” she gasps, before he can start to worry that he’s hurt her or violated her trust or whatever other unfounded anxieties always plague his poor processors. “Optimus, _please._”

He obliges her—strikes her again, same force and same place, and Elita keens, rocking her aft back into the unrelenting pressure of his hips.

“Like that?” he asks, almost in a whisper, and Primus bless his poor spark, Elita doesn’t miss the waver in his voice—but she also doesn’t miss the ripples of excitement she can feel in his EM field, or the way his spike twitches in her valve at her answering, breathless plea for more, _harder_.

True to his word, Optimus takes her slow—he likesit, the son of a glitch, she thinks scathingly, _likes _drawing it out until her valve actually hurts with pent-up charge. She struggles to remind herself that the overload he’ll wring from her body will be well worth the wait, struggles to focus instead on the singing pain from his hand on her aft. The Prime is a quick study; he’s already dialed in on the force she wants, already figured out how much she can take before he needs to switch sides or focus his attention instead on the back of her thighs.

“Primus,” Optimus murmurs, his tone awestruck, reverent, as his hand strokes with profound softness along the stinging left side of her aft. “You really are beautiful, Elita. I’m ashamed to admit I used to think about you like this, but… the most vivid dream doesn’t even begin to compare.”

She laughs, breathless, and it ends in an embarrassing squeak when he swats her again. “You—_mm!_—used to think about me, huh?”

“How could I not? You could unravel me with a glance, you know.” He presses close, his chest flush to her back, and bites at the side of her neck. The pace of his hips is less steady now, more urgent. Her valve aches and her aft stings, it hurts, everything _hurts_, but his hands are warm where they caress her sides and his voice is dulcet in her audio. “If someone had told me that the orn would come when I could be with you like this…have you like this…I’d have—asked if they were sane…”

He trails off—his vents are whistling, heat pouring off his chassis. Elita pulls his hand to her mouth, muffles her moans against his plating. She wants to tell him—tell him that she’d been thinking of him too, all along, yearning for him, too proud and too scared to tell him so. Tell him how undone he makes her feel when he so much as looks at her—that she’s been so reluctant to stay over in his berth because waking once more in his arms might be all it takes for her to fall in love with him, she’s _that_close.

Optimus grunts and shifts his hips back, making to withdraw, and Elita hurries to reach back for him, clutching his plating, pulling him back to her. He pauses, as if stunned—and then his hand wraps around her jaw, craning her head back, and he kisses her, kisses her in a way he’s somehow never kissed her before. He overloads with a choked moan against her mouth, spills into her valve, so deep she can feel the heat of his release. It is every bit as intimate and thrilling and terrifying as she expected.

His spike slips free of her overwrought valve, and Elita holds her breath, anticipation sending ripples through her EM field that he’s sure to feel. Optimus’s hand covers her valve, cradling her intimacy, worshipful. She arches her hips, and he reads her, moves almost before she does to deliver a sharp slap to her aching interface. Her sensory net can’t make any sense of the stimuli anymore—she only feels, so much and so intensely that it overwhelms her, and when Optimus brings his hand to her valve again, much more gently now, she tips over into overload with a shuddering sob. The Prime leans against her back, murmurs through the kisses he places against her cheekplates while his fingers press into her valve, massaging her through her climax. All she can do is cling to him as she rides it out, as overload unravels her and leaves her flayed open under his hands. The only safe place in the universe.

When Elita drifts back to herself, she’s curled on her side, Optimus at her back, his arm heavy and warm around her, vents gusting hastily cycled air across her frame.

“Alright?” he asks, voice a little hoarse, his mouth clumsy as he kisses the back of her neck.

“…Mm. Yeah.” Elita rubs a trembling hand along her faceplates, releases a low giggle. “Primus.”

“It’s Optimus, actually.”

She dissolves into laughter, too sated and exhausted to even pretend at irritation. “Cheeky mech,” she murmurs, craning her head over her shoulder so his kisses will find her face. “Thank you. That was…”

“It certainly was.” He nestles his face against the side of her helm; she can feel the curve of his smile. “Sweetspark.”

She hums, shutters her optics. She’s too exhausted to even think of moving to his berth. “That’s new.”

“I can stop.”

“Don’t. I like it.”

A new song plays, a sweet, soft ballad, each note full and aching, almost swollen. Optimus is quiet for several long moments. His hand meanders along her side to settle on her hip. When he does speak, it’s in scarcely more than a whisper, a hushed, frightened thing he mouths against her shoulder.

“So do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue:
> 
> Elita's paint was scuffed in an incredibly incriminating manner and Chromia laughed herself to death. The end.


End file.
